Sol moved like a phantom through the sunless depths of the Shadow-Gorged Ravine.
For over two hours, the quiet floor of the rift had served as his personal slaughterhouse.
He had moved from one territorial boundary to the next with terrifying precision, executing apex beasts, draining their dense souls, and feeding the insatiable hunger of the ancient compass slumbering deep within his mind.
Yet, as he crested a high, moss-covered ridge overlooking the western span of the gorge, the surrounding jungle fell into an eerie, unnatural quiet.
Sol came to a halt, resting one hand on the leather-bound hilt of the Dreadwing blade. His neon-crimson eyes narrowed as he expanded his senses outward, casting a wide net of perception across the surrounding tree line.
But… there was nothing.
The heavy, suffocating aura of fear that had accompanied his earlier massacres had rolled through the valley like an invisible shockwave.
